


Please, Daddy?

by Balthoron



Category: Marvel, Marvel 616, Ms. Marvel (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Mentions of Violence, Mentions of alcoholism, Other, hard of hearing character, kind of f'ed up, mentions of abuse, oopsie woopsies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 02:16:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17377682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balthoron/pseuds/Balthoron
Summary: Sometimes things are better left unsaid.Crying in your room at 3 am while your parents scream and argue about divorce.At least you aren't alone.





	Please, Daddy?

**Author's Note:**

> This was part of a vent piece I did for a work over on Marvel Amino!

“You don’t mean it.”

Barney spoke softly, eyeing his blonde brother almost suspiciously from behind that shaggy brown hair. It wasn’t that Clint particularly wanted to talk about the elephant in the room, but after his statement? It was a little impossible to avoid it for long. Clint avoided eye contact with his brother, instead hazy blue hues staring idle towards the far wall. He didn’t want to talk about this. Not here. Not now.

But he didn’t really have a choice, did he?

 

“You’re right, I guess.” The response was barely audible, scrawny arms hugging those bandaged legs of his, gaze focused on the ground instead of that of his older brother who eyed him so. At the response the brunette seemed satisfied, leaning back against the beaten sofa with a slightly crooked grin on his expression.

Clint didn’t mean it.  
Things weren’t getting better, were they?

Two fucked up kids in this household, a fucked up Dad, and a fucked up Mom. He said this year was probably going to be worse, slowly sinking into pessimism before Barney had dragged him out, the stubborn jerk. Still, that’s what brothers are for I guess, the blonde pouting a bit at his brothers expression and sticking his tongue out.

“I bet this year Jesus Christ himself is gonna come down and fight our old man.” Barney is just teasing now, using one hand to shove Clint playfully, earning a punch to the shoulder. Still, Barney only laughed, taking the hit and headlocking his little brother to ruffle his hair. Their mother was busy, working hard in the kitchen to prepare whatever they were supposed to eat for dinner, likely TV dinners or chicken per usual- but that’s alright. It had an unspoken normalcy, like things were almost okay in the Barton household. 

Almost. 

Clint hadn’t picked up the change in noise from the kitchen, the soft radio switching off only attracted the attention of his brother. Barney turned his head towards the yellow light emitted from the entryway, smile falling. Clint only picked up on his brothers change of pace, as even being hard of hearing he couldn’t ignore the tension starting to fall on the household.

His mother, he peeked over the couch to see, was staring wordlessly out the window, blonde hair frizzled and messy, those tired eyes wide as a deer in headlights- she was frozen where she stood, a dish in hand she had been drying, now risk falling to the floor and shattering in her shaky hands.

She spoke, words that went right over Clint’s head, too quiet to hear- but he could read her lips.

‘Boys, go to [y]our room.’

Upstairs, he soon realized, as Barney took him by the elbow and started urging Clinton to follow him. Clint of course did so, baby blues wide with worry as they turned the corner into the hall, unable to deny the loud bang of the front door swinging open. Clint faltered in his tracks at the noise, Barney practically pulling him along to keep them out of the cross fire. Up into the small bedroom they had to share on the farm, lights dimmed as Barney finally let go of his brothers arm in favor for plopping down on the mattress. Nothing but the two of them, the moonlight staring through the window, and the muffled sound of screaming in the household.

Clint hated the screaming.

He couldn’t hear it, but he could damn well feel the all too familiar vibrations of a fight, shaking the picture frames on the wall, bangs and thuds and the distant sound of sobbing that he couldn’t hear himself. Still, he knew, studying the expression on his brothers face as he tossed himself down into his own bed. Barney was angry, he knew that, angry at their dad and their mom and this horrible situation they had to endure. Barney caught his brothers gaze, in an instant that disdainful expression switching to one of a lazy tired, pulling the thin blankets up over himself as he laid down on the pillow.

But Clint knew better, frown tight as he curled up himself, feeling the vibrations rattling the floor and walls.

In the darkness, he could make out the movements of his brothers lips, unable to hear him speaking barely above a whisper. 

But he could make it out. Just as he did his mothers breathless whisper.

‘Merry Christmas, C[lint?]. Tomorrow will be b[e]tter.’

And with that, his brother turned over, leaving Clint now alone with his own thoughts in the darkness. He was used to it, frail form shivering against a rather old quilt, the thumps and thuds of a fight now silent in his mind, though he could imagine the horrible words being thrown like knives. He was only 11, he didn’t know why his Mom would stay with such a bastard, and he hated her for it. He hated that she cared more about her husband than about him and his brother. He hated that she couldn’t see all the harm he was doing.

Because Clint saw.

Barney may be pretending to sleep, but Clint could see how his brother tightened and tensed under noises that were invisible to his ear. He couldn’t hear the muffled sounds. He couldn't hear what was happening- But Barney could. He saw how it hurt his brother, emotionally at least. He was always beating up on their mom, and if she wasn’t around, Barney was the closest thing to the fire. Bruises and black eyes, Barney had been teaching Clint for years now how to take a beating, for better or worse. Merry Christmas, huh?

Still, as his eyes drifted shut, he remain unaware of his brothers shuffling, bruised and battered legs swinging over the edge of the bed, carefully getting to his feet as Clint drifted off to better places in the moonlight. Barney couldn’t just stand around- not tonight. He couldn’t just stand by as he heard his mother weep, bandaid littered fingers gently brushing over his brothers scruffy blonde hair.

“Things will get better, Clint. I promise you.”

And with that, the Brunette no older than 14 headed out into the common area. Brown eyes matching that of the man he hated so much, fists clenched in anger with the sole goal in mind to defend his mother from his father's drunken anger.

Not on Christmas Eve. 

-

Looking back on it now, Clint, sitting in Avengers Compound among friends and such- He couldn’t quite believe it. Things change. Family moves out, hell, he was pretty sure Barney still hated his guts-

But things changed.

Gods and men mingling, cheering in the wintery atmosphere, a familiar redheaded gal gently nudging his shoulder as he zoned out, bringing him back to reality. Natasha offered him a half hearted smile, eyes glimmering with amusement as she glanced over at Thor’s antics. They were here. They weren’t in his old Iowa farm house, a dingy sad place hiding too many bad memories. They were we partners and truer family, those baby blue marksman eyes scanning the crowd with a newfound bitter warmth in his heart. As Natasha sit down next to him, and Tony’s drowned out drunken singing blared in the background Clint came to a realization.

Barney never taught him how to fight, in the end Barney taught him how to hurt.

Merry Christmas, brother, wherever you may be now.


End file.
